


my boy builds coffins

by caramochalatte



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:35:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28973706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramochalatte/pseuds/caramochalatte
Summary: On the evening of June 3, the phone rings and she reflects on where they are now.
Relationships: Hooker | Girlfriend/Jacket (Hotline Miami)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	my boy builds coffins

_Ring...ring...ring...ring..._

It's always the phone that wakes her up. 

The shrill noise that pierces through the frequent nightmares and brings her back to reality. It's never a knock at the door from some mailman, or the static from the TV if it was left on overnight, or the steady breathing of his body beside her; it's  _always_ _that goddamn phone._

Steadily, she slides out from underneath the arm that covers her, cradles her as she sleeps, as if she were something worth protecting. Ever since he brought her here, she's slowly begun to believe that. Her eyes drift over his still form as she stands, watching the rise and fall of his chest from where the covers had slipped. He looks so peaceful, so  _innocent_ , that it breaks her heart and mends it at the same time. 

_Ring...ring...ring...ring..._

The floorboards creek ever so slightly as she crosses through the room and into the kitchen. One look at the table gives her something to do for the day, eyeing the empty pizza box on the otherwise clean tablecloth. Old habits die hard, she guesses. At least he was trying to stay tidy, very clearly showing his appreciation for her hard work in decorating his previously dreary apartment. She had even put flowers on the table to brighten up the atmosphere. 

God knows their lives have been depressing as is. 

How long has she dreamed of this? How long has she begged God for a home, a place to feel safe and secure? It's felt like forever since she could sleep in a warm room and not have to whore herself out to whatever man with money passed by. 

Or whoever decided to fuck her without pay, with a shit ton of drugs and a video camera, while she begged for someone to come and  _end it already—_

No. 

Not anymore. 

Her nightmares might take her back there, but in the waking world, she's safe, content,  _loved._

_Ring...ring...ring...ring..._

Right. 

She makes her way past the door to the bathroom and into the living room, where that _fucking_ phone sits beside the couch  _(the same couch he carefully lowered her onto that first night)_ , ringing and flickering its red light almost mockingly. How he isn't up from the noise, she may never know. However, that fact brings her slight comfort; he needs his sleep if he's to do his "work" successfully. 

The ringing stops as soon as she steps in front of the machine. With a few clicks and a beep, she hears a voice begin to speak in an almost expectant tone. 

_"Hello there, this is 'Thomas' from the 'Downtown Relaxation'. We need you to fill in at the reception tonight. One of our employees has 'called in sick'. Wear something fitting and be discreet."_

_Click._

An innocent request for work to the average person, but it fills her with a heavy sense of dread. She knows what happens now—he wakes up and goes straight to the phone, this time checking for any messages, and then he leaves her for the day with a light kiss on the cheek  _(it took a while to feel comfortable with affection again)_ and a look that she knows means "forgive me". 

She'll spend the day doing whatever small task keeps her busy—cleaning, redecorating, reading, maybe trying out the game console he has—but really she'll be waiting for him to come back. Then, after a few hours, he'll walk through the door, hands shaking and eyes staring even farther into the distance than last time. 

She'll notice the bruises on his face, the light flecks of blood on his trademark jacket and whatever mask he donned that night _(too much blood would be suspicious, they did say to be discreet after all)_ and usher him to sit down on the couch, the chair, the bed, just somewhere before his legs give out under him. Sometimes he follows her, sometimes he insists that he's fine while holding up a new VHS tape for them to watch, and sometimes he silently makes his way to the bathroom to strip and take a long shower with hot water and as much soap as he has, surely washing away the thoughts of the night as much as the evidence. 

He's used to the bloodshed by now, but he's still human goddamnit. 

She turns on her heel and walks back to the bedroom, the apartment now eerily silent. It should be a blessed silence, but the weight of the message on the phone crushes any sense of peace. There is no rest for the wicked, even if the wicked don't have a choice, she believes. When she steps back into that room, she spots his body in the same place it was when she left. 

He must be having a good dream, or maybe no dream at all. That would probably be for the best, she thinks as she carefully lifts his arm and slides back against his warm chest. 

He kills people. He slits the throats of Russian mobsters and bashes the skulls of politicians in with whatever he can get his hands on. He's survived bullet wounds and stabbings and explosions, not even counting his time in the army. He's a dangerous killer, and Miami will come to fear his bloody legacy. 

Yet here, in his arms, she's never felt safer. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've never posted before please forgive me


End file.
